The first time I dialed into the internet, the modem squealed like a robot learning to sing.

My mom yelled to get off the phone.

I minimized Winamp, hid my Tamagotchi in my backpack, and hoped nobody saw my butterfly clips at the bus stop.

If you smiled at any of that, you didn’t just attend high school in the 90s—you survived it.

And you learned more than you think.

This isn’t just a nostalgia tour.

It’s a reminder of the scrappy, analog grit that still shapes how you handle life, love, and everything messy in between.

1. Passing notes without getting caught

Before texts, there were notes.

Folded into triangles.

Slid between textbooks.

Hand-delivered with a look that said, “Read this later.”

Those notes taught stealth, discretion, and courage.

You had to decide what to say, write it in ink, and trust the person reading it.

No edits.

No unsend.

Today, when conversations feel high-stakes, I remember that trust.

It kept friendships alive then, and it still keeps them honest now.

What would you write if you couldn’t backspace?

2. Calling landlines and asking for your crush

You dialed a house phone, and someone’s dad answered.

Your voice went two sizes smaller.

“Hi, is Casey there?”

This was exposure therapy for teenagers.

We learned to face awkwardness, to be direct, and to handle no with dignity.

That muscle still matters.

Direct communication shortens drama.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is pick up the phone—again.

3. Waiting for your song to hit the radio

The mixtape hustle was real.

You hovered by the stereo.

Finger on “Record.”

DJ talked over the intro, and you swore you’d never forgive them.

That wait taught patience and timing.

You couldn’t force the moment; you had to be ready when it arrived.

Adult life rewards the same mindset.

Prepare well, stay present, and when your moment comes, hit record.

No apology for the DJ.

4. Printing directions and hoping you didn’t miss the turn

Maps lived in glove compartments.

If you got lost, you pulled over under a streetlamp and recalculated with a highlighter.

We developed a sense of orientation—both literal and internal.

When plans fall apart now, I still reach for that inner map.

Breathe.

Zoom out.

Re-route.

Getting lost made us resourceful.

It also made arriving feel earned.

5. The computer lab lottery

If you made it to a free terminal, you played The Oregon Trail, typed in WordPerfect, or waited three minutes for a single pixelated image to load.

Teachers hovered like satellites.

You learned to focus under constraints.

I still think about that when my attention gets scattered.

One window.

One tab.

Finish the thing.

There’s a calm power in single-tasking that no productivity hack can replace.

6. Fashion that doubled as identity

Grunge flannel.

Raver beads.

JNCOs that could hide a small city.

Doc Martens scuffed from bus stops and basement shows.

Clothes were more than trends; they were declarations.

We were learning who we were by trying on who we weren’t.

If your style back then makes you cringe now, good.

It means you grew.

Here’s a quick exercise if you want to reconnect with that honest experimentation:

• Pull one old photo and name the value that outfit tried to express.

• Ask if that value still matters.

• Keep the value; update the costume.

• Wear one thing this week that signals who you are becoming.

Our fashion risks were training wheels for authentic adulthood.

They still are.

7. Lunchroom politics and the courage to sit down

Every cafeteria had invisible lines.

You knew where the skaters sat, the orchestra kids, the jocks, the floaters.

You also knew how vulnerable it felt to carry a tray and look for a place to land.

I still remember the day I sat with the debate team because my own table was full of sniping.

I laughed harder than I had in months.

It taught me to choose rooms where my nervous system could relax.

You’re allowed to do that now, too.

Choose tables that nourish you, not ones that drain you.

As Rudá Iandê writes in his new book, Laughing in the Face of Chaos: A Politically Incorrect Shamanic Guide for Modern Life, “Their happiness is their responsibility, not yours.”

That line unclenches my shoulders every time.

It also makes lunch a lot simpler.

8. The locker clean-out that felt like a life audit

Dusty folders.

Broken pencils.

A photo strip you forgot about and a note that once mattered more than air.

That mini-ritual of clearing a tiny metal closet prepared many of us for minimalism later.

I didn’t move toward minimalism to be trendy.

I needed space to hear myself think.

Now, when my week feels noisy, I do a five-minute “locker audit” at my desk.

Trash three papers.

Return one item to its home.

Choose the next single step.

Small order creates big relief.

9. The guidance counselor conversation you didn’t expect

Maybe you cried.

Maybe you didn’t.

Maybe you just sat in the plastic chair and stared at the college brochures like they were postcards from a stranger’s life.

Those awkward, tender conversations introduced many of us to the idea that our choices could be ours.

Not our parents’.

Not our peers’.

Ours.

Adult life keeps repeating the invitation.

Choose aligned paths over approved ones.

If you’re currently in a career pivot, consider this permission slip: you don’t have to justify your joy.

You just have to build it.

10. Graduation, and the quiet after the noise

The tassel flip gets the photo, but the moment after is the one that sticks.

When the gym empties.

When the gown scratches your neck.

When the air feels thick with potential and terror.

Big transitions still feel like that.

Loud, then suddenly quiet.

If you let the quiet speak, it will tell you what to do next.

One breath.

One call.

One step.

When I read Iandê’s book earlier this year, one line landed perfectly on that quiet: “When we let go of the need to be perfect, we free ourselves to live fully—embracing the mess, complexity, and richness of a life that’s delightfully real.”

I’ve mentioned the book before because it keeps handing me practical courage when life shape-shifts.

Perfection never got any of us through a rite of passage.

Presence did.

What those years actually gave you

If you remember those 10 moments, you remember more than glitter gel pens and payphones.

You remember living without infinite undo.

You remember practicing bravery in small ways, every day.

That training translates.

You learned patience from waiting on the radio.

You learned presence from passing notes.

You learned boundaries from lunch tables and landlines.

You learned that identity is fluid and discovery takes time.

I still rely on the same fundamentals: mindfulness over noise, responsibility over blame, and compassion over performance.

And yes, I need reminders.

When my inner teenager starts spinning, I return to my body—breath slow, shoulders drop, jaw unclenches.

Old-school regulation beats doomscrolling every time.

How to practice the 90s survival skills now

Let’s not miss this final point.

Nostalgia is sweet, but it’s useless unless it changes how we live.

Try this uncomplicated, weeklong reset based on those 90s muscles:

Day 1 — Send one honest message you can’t unsay.

Not reckless—honest.

Day 2 — Single-task for 25 minutes.

Phone in another room.

Day 3 — Make a 5-song “now” playlist and listen without doing anything else.

Day 4 — Call someone you care about and ask two real questions.

Day 5 — Do a “locker audit” of your desk or bag.

Remove five items.

Day 6 — Sit somewhere new at lunch or in a meeting.

See what changes.

Day 7 — Choose one next step that scares you a little and do it imperfectly.

These micro-practices build that same resilience we earned between payphones and homeroom.

To borrow another line from Laughing in the Face of Chaos, “You have both the right and responsibility to explore and try until you know yourself deeply.”

I keep that taped inside my journal.

It’s a quiet dare to keep evolving.

Final thoughts

Surviving high school in the 90s didn’t happen by accident.

We navigated friction every day—limited options, analog delays, and the vulnerability of being seen up close.

That friction made us capable.

If you’re feeling overwhelmed by the pace of modern life, take a cue from your younger self.

Slow down.

Choose your table.

Make your call.

Record the song when it plays.

And if you want a grounded, unconventional companion for this season, I recommend Rudá Iandê’s Laughing in the Face of Chaos again.

His insights nudged me to question the stories I still carry and listen more carefully to my body—practices I wish someone had handed me along with that folded note in geometry class.

Before we finish, there’s one more thing I need to address: your life doesn’t need a perfect plan, just a present you.

The 90s taught you that.

You’re already more prepared than you think.